Best Friend Tragic Love Short Stories & Novels

On my wedding day, the crowd kept teasing us newlyweds. A friend asked me, "What's the most insane thing you've done for him?" I smiled. "Letting him tattoo his own special mark on me despite my bleeding disorder." Then, they asked the groom who was outside the room. "And what's the most insane thing you've done?" He paused for a moment. "That tattoo is the name of the miscarried child I had with her best friend." Everyone went white and exchanged looks, then someone tried to defuse the situation. "Still a joker, Zack." Zack Gray said solemnly, "It's not a joke, but that's not the most insane thing. I did it with her best friend the whole night before the wedding, and we did it right on the bed she's sitting on." I frowned, my heart pounding wildly. No wonder my best friend would tear up every time she looked at my tattoo. I sneered. If that was how he wanted to play, then I would do something crazy too.

In my third year working overseas as a war correspondent, a grenade blast left me wounded and stripped me of my memories. The PTSD that followed was severe enough to keep me in a psychiatric hospital for two years. It wasn't until two months ago that I finally remembered who I was. The day I came home, my best friend and my husband met me at the airport, both of them crying harder than I was. Russell Ellison's eyes were red-rimmed, but his voice was as gentle as ever. "The new place is all set up. Move in for now. I'll come keep you company after work." I went back to our old house instead. The moment I pushed the door open, I saw a wedding photo hanging on the wall. The bride in it wasn't me. It was my best friend. A key turned in the lock outside. The man who was supposed to be buried in work at the office walked in, fingers laced with hers. A child was tucked against his chest, calling him "Daddy" in a small, unsteady voice. I stood frozen, too stunned to breathe. We'd only been apart for two years. So how was their child already three?

Damian Pierce said we should be a minimalist couple. There was no need for gifts, holidays, and grand gestures. “True love doesn’t need material proof.” My best friend, Sienna Moore, even backed him up. “Exactly. Your husband really gets it. Unlike my ex, who did nothing but shower me with designer bags.” I nodded. We lived that minimalist life for four years. In all that time, I never received a single bouquet of flowers, and not once did he surprise me. On my birthday, he posted a photo of us on his social media with the caption: [Minimalist living. The best gift is simply being together.] The post got over 200 likes. I left a little heart in the comments. Then I came across Sienna’s private account. She had limited-edition handbags, custom-made jewelry, and a room filled with roses. [Someone once said true love doesn’t need material proof, but he insists on proving it to me.] The location was at the presidential suite of a five-star hotel. The date was my birthday. I scrolled through her posts from the past four years. Every single one had been posted on a day that was supposed to belong to Damian and me. Every gift she received had Damian’s taste written all over it. I exited her feed and removed the heart from his post. Just as casually, I ended our relationship.

In our third year of trying for a baby, Gideon Tarrant insisted that I go to the snowy peaks of the Kestrel Range to pray for a child. "The old folks say that if a wife climbs Hallow Peak and kneels to pray every three steps, heaven will send her a baby." Because of that, I faced the blizzard in the bitter subzero cold and knelt my way up from the foot of the mountain. When I was nearly at the summit, the smartwatch on my wrist suddenly buzzed. The health app showed that Gideon's heart rate was spiking. Right after that, a video synced automatically to our family cloud album. In a delivery room, Gideon was cutting the umbilical cord with red-rimmed eyes. The woman in the bed was my best friend, Amanda Crowley. Six months earlier, she had come to me in tears and told me she was pregnant and unmarried. My heart went out to her, so I sent her 80,000 dollars. She did not accept it. She only sent back one line: [Hazel, thank you for giving me the best of everything.] I thought she meant all the ways I had looked after her over the years. At this moment, as I watched the video, I saw that the people gathered around her bed were my own family. My father was holding the baby, tears of joy running down his weathered face. My mother sat at the bedside, her eyes full of tenderness. "Just focus on getting your strength back. We'll make sure Hazel doesn't find out." My brother went even further and pressed a thick envelope of cash into Gideon's hand. "Gideon, once Hazel's prayed that blessing down for Mandy, we'll have her clear out and make room for our big boy!" My husband, Gideon, held Amanda's hand tightly and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "This time, I'm never going to let you or the baby get hurt again." I lifted my head stiffly and looked up at the prayer ribbon tied to the branch above me. Gideon had written the wish on it himself. It read: [May my beloved be kept safe.] It turned out I was never a part of the beloved he had been praying for.

I reunited with my ex-husband for the first time in six years in a courtroom. He sat on the bench, while I stood in the dock as a murder defendant. The moment Tristan Hodges recognized my face, his eyes widened in shock. "You're… Sabrina?" His reaction did not surprise me. After all, who could have imagined that Sabrina Westbrook, the woman who used to burst into tears at the sight of a cockroach, and Hope Westbrook, the serial killer who had murdered five people, were one and the same? Tristan's eyes turned bloodshot, and his teeth ground together with barely contained fury. "Six years. Five lives. Five families broken forever… Sabrina Westbrook, how could you bring yourself to do it?" Watching his reaction, I let out a low laugh. "There were more than five. Judge Hodges, your fiancee—and my former best friend, Edith Rayburne—has been missing for a week now, hasn't she? Take a guess. Where do you think she is?"

On my boyfriend, Cole Anderson’s phone, everyone had a personalized contact name. My best friend, Zoey Collins, was saved as "Zoey-Bear." Me? I was just a plain, nameless ten-digit string of numbers. When I asked him about it, he just reached out and ruffled my hair. "I know your number by heart, babe. I don't need a contact tag to tell me it's you." He chuckled and added, "Besides, your bestie is practically the boss of both of us. If I want a future with you, I've gotta stay on her good side." Zoey backed him up, reassuring me with a gentle nudge. "Don't sweat it, girl. You're the actual girlfriend here. He knows where his heart belongs." I really believed Cole. I thought staying unlabeled meant I was etched deep into his heart. Until tonight, when my fever spiked to nearly 104 degrees. I texted him asking for help, but his reply was short and detached: [Drink plenty of water and rest. I'm stuck working late tonight.] Minutes later, I dragged myself toward the pharmacy across from the emergency room. My eyes widened as I caught sight of Cole through the front window. He wasn't at the office. He was standing by the counter, frantically reading the back of allergy medication boxes for Zoey. Panic was written all over his face. I stood outside in the freezing cold night air, my knees trembling as I dialed his cell. Through the glass, I watched his phone screen light up with those familiar, unassigned digits he claimed to know by heart. Without a second thought, he swiped the call away and flashed Zoey a reassuring smile. "Probably just another spam call. Ignore it." The abrupt dial tone buzzed harshly in my ear. I opened my messaging app, swiped left, and deleted our pinned chat history for good. After all, I never had a name in his world anyway. Nobody even noticed when a nameless number simply disappeared.

My boyfriend and I had planned to fly to LA to watch our favorite MLB team play at home. But on the day we were supposed to leave, I waited at the airport for three hours. He never showed. It wasn't until after dark that he finally called. “Sorry, Audrey. I forgot to tell you. Natalie found out we were taking engagement photos and got so excited she couldn't sleep. She insisted I fly out with her early to scout locations.” “You can make it here on your own, right? The three of us will meet at the stadium entrance tomorrow.” I stood frozen. Natalie Brooks was my best friend. She had watched Derek Sinclair and me go from high school sweethearts to planning our wedding, and always called herself our biggest supporter. Yet with one casual “fly out early,” Derek had left me, his bride-to-be, behind at the airport. “You two have fun.” I smiled faintly. “I suddenly don't feel like going anymore.” The next day, I saw Natalie's latest post. She had uploaded a photo of herself with Ryan Kane, my favorite player. The caption read: “Thanks to Derek for pulling strings to get me this photo. Location scouting complete. The things I do for my best friend!” I calmly liked the post. Then I called the wedding planner and canceled the wedding we were supposed to have in two weeks. Natalie never stopped talking about how much she cared about my happiness, yet she had already taken the trip and surprise meant for me. I was done sharing this relationship with a third person.

My boyfriend, my best friend, and I were dragged into some kind of relationship game. The system told us that if we cleared every round, we could go home. The first test was simple. Vote for one person to be punished. Sophie clutched my arm, trembling. I patted her hand. "Vote for yourself. If we all do that, it should end in a tie." The votes came in. One each. A three-way tie. Sophie let out a shaky breath, tears still clinging to her lashes. "Cecilia, thank God you thought of that." Then the system told each of us to pick a reward box. Mine contained a small silver shard. A message rang directly in my head. [Ability unlocked: View and alter the outcome of one vote.] I closed my fingers around the shard, smiling as I turned to tell them I’d gotten something useful. Then white light flashed around me. I arrived a few seconds after they did. And before the light had completely faded, I saw them. Sophie had her back to me, tucked into my boyfriend’s arms. "Why wouldn’t you let me vote for her just now?" Her voice was low. "If we vote for her every round, then the two of us can get out safely, can’t we?" He rested his chin on top of her head and lowered his voice. "We’ll vote for her next round." "It’s just a test. Don’t rush." The last of the light faded, and I appeared beside them. Sophie immediately turned around. As naturally as if nothing had happened, she slipped her arm through mine. "Cecilia, what did you get? Neither of us got anything." Inside my pocket, the silver shard pressed into my palm. I smiled. "Nothing." "Mine was empty too."

My best friend, Summer Cortez, is a self-proclaimed independent woman who constantly talks about how much she hates men. Some time ago, she showed up with a heavily pregnant belly and claimed that she'd undergone IVF overseas because she wanted to be a single mother by choice. Today's the day she's discharged from the postpartum retreat. My boyfriend, Adrian Haynes, fusses over her every step of the way, even stocking up on the most expensive baby diapers in advance. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, trying to appease me. "Summer's had it tough. As your boyfriend, it's only right that I help to take care of your best friend." Summer reclines against the headboard, a haughty expression on her face. "If it weren't for Sylvia's sake, I'd never have let a stinking man lay a finger on my baby." I simply smile in return. I'm just about to hand her the generous gift I've prepared for the baby, Noah Cortez's one-month celebration, when Noah blows a raspberry and lets out a tiny coo in the cradle. To everyone else, it's just meaningless baby babble. But to my ears, which had just undergone surgery after a car accident, it turns into a childish voice of complaint. [Daddy's such a good actor. Just last night, he was hugging and kissing Mommy in the bathroom.] The smile on my face instantly freezes. I look up at Adrian, only to find him staring at Summer with unmistakable affection. A cold laugh escapes my lips as I slip the check back into my bag. "On second thought, I had Adrian buy the gifts. Since you're so repulsed by men, I'm sure you wouldn't accept gifts that have been bought by one."

Yves Riverson had a new razor. It was royal blue, wrapped in red silk, and he placed it at the very bottom of his suitcase as though it were some priceless treasure. During the flight, the plane suddenly hit turbulence. The alarm screeched through the cabin, and in that moment, the thing he clutched was not my hand. It was the razor someone else had given him. Only after the plane landed did he seem to remember I was there. He gently caressed my hand and told me not to be afraid. I said nothing, nor did I push him away. After we left the airport, I watched him eagerly pick up his phone. "Yeah, yeah, it's fine." Then he turned and saw me. The smile on his face froze. "Just talking to my parents." I nodded and ended the call with his parents. The car was moving slowly, and he was happily chatting with that person. I was scrolling the screen. The jewelry purchases made through our linked-payment account. That person made sure to note that the razor must be royal blue. "To Ms. Samantha Shaw." Samantha's laughter drifted faintly from the phone. I looked at my tired reflection in the car window and suddenly blurted out, "When did you start having an affair with my best friend?"

I accidentally stumbled upon numerous explicit videos on my husband's computer while tidying up his desk. The videos showed him in bed with my unmarried best friend. The relationship between my husband and me had been platonic ever since I gave birth 40 years ago. His reason was that he was no longer capable of physical intimacy. Now, it felt like my entire life had been a sham, despite all my efforts for my family.

Every year on my birthday, Yale Jensen would find some excuse to disappear into his study and write a letter in secret. The first time I caught him, he refused to let me read it. He only smiled and said, "After we're married." So I assumed the letters were for me, some grand romantic gesture he was saving for our future together. And every birthday, as another letter joined the rest, I kept waiting for the day he'd finally hand them over. That day came sooner than I expected. The night before we were supposed to get married at City Hall, Yale came home drunk from a business dinner. Barely coherent, he murmured, "The letters... have you read them yet...?" I took that as permission. It wasn't until I opened the first envelope that I realized I'd been waiting all those years for letters that had never been meant for me. [Yana, does it really not bother you at all that Tessa and I are together?] The second was worse. [Yana, I made Tessa a birthday dinner today. Thinking about you being overseas and missing out on all of this made me feel awful.] Then the third. [Yana, what am I supposed to do when I keep thinking about you every time I kiss Tessa?] ... I was Tessa Sinclair. Yana Cater was my best friend. The most recent letter had been written two months ago. Unlike the others, it contained only a single line, heavy with regret. [I'm sorry. I'm going to marry Tessa.] The paper crumpled in my fist. Then Yale's phone rang, and I picked it up. "Yale Jensen! You said you used a condom! How the hell am I pregnant?" Yana's hysterical voice came through the phone. I looked down at the letter still clenched in my hand. "He's asleep," I said. "You can call back tomorrow. Unless there's something you'd like me to pass along?"

My best friend, Susie Young, broke a bone while saving my boyfriend's mother. So my boyfriend, Josh Wagner, had to take care of her after work every day. At first, he still came home afterward. Later, he got tired of going back and forth, so he simply started staying at the hospital dorm. Whenever I asked about Susie's injuries, he always looked helpless. "It takes at least three months for an injury like that to heal. She's probably got a long way to go. If it weren't for repaying her for saving my mom, I wouldn't even bother taking care of her." When Susie heard that, she rolled her eyes. "You think I want you here? You can't even peel an apple properly." They acted so openly that it seemed like there was nothing going on between them. Then one day, my blood sugar dropped, and I accidentally fell down the stairs. My arm was dislocated in the fall. Drenched in cold sweat from the pain, I called Josh. He sounded helpless. "Susie has rehab today. I really can't get away. Take a cab to the ER yourself." I dragged myself to the hospital, my arm limp and weak. I stopped by Susie's room. When I pushed the door open, the room was empty. A nurse told me Susie had been discharged two weeks ago and was recovering at home. I stood frozen in the hallway, my hands and feet cold and numb. Then a post from Josh's mom popped up on my phone. "Josh is all grown up now. He finally brought his future wife home!" In the video, Susie and Josh were fooling around in matching aprons. They both saw the post and liked it at the same time. Neither of them offered an explanation.

In the seventh year of our secret relationship, Alex Timbers became the hero pilot the whole country was talking about. His flight had run into extreme weather. Somehow, on nerve and skill alone, he'd brought the plane down safely. I watched the livestream the whole time, crying so hard I could barely stand. Then, ten minutes later, during an on-site interview at the airport, a three-year-old boy ducked under the barricade and threw himself into Alex's arms, sobbing and calling him Dad. Right behind him came my best friend, Natalie Wilde, her eyes red. In front of the entire country, Alex pulled them both into his arms. Before I could even process it, two more familiar faces appeared on screen. My mother, Susan Healey, hugged Natalie, her voice breaking. "It's over now, Natalie. Alex made it back alive. You and the boy finally have someone to lean on." My father, Dale Healey, clapped Alex on the shoulder, beaming. "Your family of three is whole again. Nothing beats that." In that instant, every drop of blood in my body ran cold. Over the past seven years, I'd had three miscarriages because of Alex. Each time, he'd held me and sworn, eyes red, "Mary, for your reputation, I can't let you have a child out of wedlock. Once I make captain, we'll get married." I laughed until the laughter turned into tears, blurring my vision. It wasn't just Alex. My parents had been standing with them the whole time. I'd been the only one left waiting, seven years, in a place no one could see. I typed out in the livestream's comment section: [Congratulations.]

My mom's dying wish was to see me marry Callum Sinclair. Callum, who lived and breathed surgery, finally agreed to put down the scalpel and come with me to get our marriage license. But just as our number was called over the speaker, my best friend, Helena, stopped him. "The cryo-transplant in Cardiology has gone wrong. The heart muscle is rejecting irreversibly after rewarming." Callum walked away from the window at once. I grabbed his arm. "It's our turn. Sign first, then go. It's three minutes." Callum yanked his hand free. "A life is on the line. I'm a doctor. Three minutes is enough to kill someone." "But my mom is dying too. She wants to see me get married." My tears soaked the front of my dress, and Helena rushed over to pry my fingers loose. "Rosalie, stop this! Your mom is terminal. Nothing can save her now, but other people still have a chance. "You can't let Callum be branded negligent just because of your pathetic selfishness!" But the hospital had just called. My mom's oxygen levels had crashed, and she wouldn't make it through the night. The two of them walked out of the hall, one after the other. I would never fit into their world. They'd both gone to medical school. They never ran out of surgical cases and ideals to talk about. They ate off the same plate and debated the same patient's treatment plan. And me? I could only cook their late-night meals at home and wash their white coats that reeked of disinfectant. They were on the same wavelength. I was always the outsider. A world of life, death, and ideals I could never squeeze into—suddenly, I didn't want to try anymore.

On the day Hugh Jameson and I are supposed to get married, I make sure we get ticket number one at city hall. I want us to be the first couple to make it official. Hugh shows up an hour late. I'm about to let him have it when my best friend, Zoey Conway, leans out from the passenger seat of his car. "Sorry, Lynette! Hugh went out of his way to pick me up, so we got held up. You two are getting married today. I have to be here to see it!" I clench my jaw and somehow keep my temper in check. I have no choice but to take another number and wait. When they finally call us, I slip my arm through Hugh's and get to my feet. Zoey suddenly calls out, "Wait! My stomach hurts. I need to use the bathroom. Just take another number and wait for me!" I keep walking, but Hugh sits right back down and smiles at her. "Go ahead. I'll wait for you." I turn back to him, my expression hardening. "Hugh, we don't have time. City hall closes at 11:30 am, and we only have an hour left. We're supposed to be at my wedding dress fitting at noon." He doesn't even look up from his phone. He just keeps scrolling, clearly annoyed. "What's the rush? It only takes three minutes to get the paperwork done." His screen is still lit, and I can see exactly what he's looking at. He's buying Zoey a limited-edition necklace, the same one I'd asked him for more than once. Every time, he told me he couldn't get one. I almost laugh. I stop trying to rush him and call my sworn rival instead. "Didn't you say you were crazy about me? City hall closes at 11:30 am. If you can get here in time, I'll marry you."

My body has a special nourishing effect. However, both of my marriage engagements were called off. My first fiance was a religious man who broke his celibacy to make love to me. He canceled the engagement because he couldn't forgive himself. My second fiance was my childhood friend. He made love to me every night. Then, he apologized to me and said I couldn't satisfy him. When I was about to take my life, I saw them acting out a pure love story at my friend's bedside. "Sophia, I won't force you if you don't want to do it." "For you, I'm fine with keeping our relationship platonic. I don't mind if we never do it. I can hold myself back!" They treat her gently, as if she will shatter with a single kiss. I put the noose away and call my father. "Dad, I'm not against it anymore. You can send me to the son of the Lowell family to treat his impotence."

I worked as a waitress in a small-town diner, but I put my husband Tom through Harvard Law School. But after he graduated, when I was eight months pregnant, he divorced with me and married my best friend, Sarah. On their wedding day, I didn't cry or make a scene. Instead, I went to work as their housekeeper. Tom thought my love made me easy to control. Sarah treated me like dirt, thinking I was born to serve. I never complained – I just prepared a surprise for them. But when their daughter was admitted to Harvard, they opened the surprise and went crazy.

My husband, Mitch Cooley, has been with me through my fifth year of battling depression. While searching for recipes online, a notification for a late-night livestream for anonymous confessions pops up on my phone screen. "What's the biggest lie your husband has ever told you?" I tap on the notification out of curiosity as my eyes are drawn to the profile picture showing two hands tightly clasped together. The interviewee replies, "I'm still single, but if it's about my stupid best friend, then she'd been lied to by her husband three times. "The first time, her ex-boyfriend died in a car crash while cheating on her, and her now-husband hid the truth on purpose so that she thought the main reason her ex died was that she wanted to break up with him. "Her husband knew all along that her ex-boyfriend had been cheating on her with me, but he watched her try to slit her wrists in remorse multiple times without telling her the truth. "As for the third time, I just mentioned to her husband that he could only ever have a baby with me, and he immediately got himself a certificate proving that he was sexually frigid and refused to sleep with her. "But the most ridiculous thing is that my best friend still stupidly went to get an IVF done while I was rolling in the sheets with her husband every night." I feel alarm bells go off in my head. Mitch had also suddenly experienced sexual frigidity recently. The hospital he went to for treatment was one recommended by my best friend, Lexie Moyer. My hands tremble as I click on the interviewee's profile picture. I then realize that the red mole on the ring finger is the exact same one on Mitch's finger. The interviewee's tone suddenly turns low and restrained. "Even when her husband told her today that he would be working overtime at the company, when he was actually keeping me and our son company, she still made a whole table of dishes waiting for him to come home." I freeze on the spot the moment the interviewee's voice changer malfunctions for a bit. I know that voice too well. It is Lexie's.

Once, I posted a photo of Eugene Chapman and me. He stopped me right there on the street, his face cold as he pushed my phone down. "Louisa, I don't like putting my private life online for strangers to gossip about. Delete it. You don't need to be that desperate for attention." People streamed past us as I fought back tears and deleted the post. Only when the photo disappeared did his expression finally soften. He sighed and pulled me into his arms. "Come on. We just need to live our lives. We don't have to post everything online just to prove something to other people." After that, I never posted about him again. For the next three years, there wasn't a single trace of him anywhere on my social media. When my best friend asked if I even had a boyfriend, I laughed it off and told her Eugene was just a private person. Even our wedding invitations for next month only had a scenic photo on the front. Then last night, a pet influencer's video popped up in my recommendations, and Eugene was in it. He had one arm around a girl and was grinning at the camera, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The post had more than ten thousand comments, almost all of them gushing about how cute Eugene and his girlfriend were together. I went through the account, post by post. The first video of him went up just eight months after Eugene and I started dating. The girl's pinned comment read, [He insists on filming us every single day. It's so annoying.] So Eugene never hated having his life all over social media. He just hated having me in it. I closed the app and texted the wedding planner. [The wedding is canceled.]